Sunday, May 1, 2022



Mayar V



poet of the early days

when hope ran through you,

the desire to die

under the firs and the rushes.


A walnut tree gathered your breath

and you went toward the other dimension of the world

like a little tuberose

which would have lost its scent

like a rifle

that would have lost its charge

like a voice that would have stolen your life,

like a silent volcano

on the road of your homeland.


Mayar VIII


When the heart of man was ripped out,

he was asleep,

and the day when his veins were opened,

he went absent,

when they killed him, he was

researching his regrets

and when his door was darkened,

he was already afar.

But, when, finally, he discovered silence,

then, poetry was born.


Mayar XIV



the storks are dead,

the nightingales

and the cranes of bad omens

are dead themselves as well;

on these rivers loaded with mystery

only pass black birds.

What do you want,

the memory has left for the oceans

we are stones worn down by the wind

and a dream rip hope from us

when we wish to resuscitate memories.


Aztecal III


Your dog has died,

you buried him with his bones

in the garden of your home,

among the coconut palms

like an close family friend.


Your children opened their hands

to tell him goodbye,

the night did not hurt him,

life did not hurt him,

nor his eyes,

we poisoned him to let him rest

in the shadow of the trees.


A puppy,

he slept under your bed,

ate a bit of wheat from your lap

like birds,

should he suffer from cold,

you gave him your pillow,

your caramels,

you gave him, in sum,

your dreams to heal him.


Tender was his downy skin,

understanding were his eyes;

Oh! friend in the night,

in life, in death.


And now, who will your children caress?

Who will  jump the hedge

chasing after a bitch in heat?

Who will be the sentinel of the town?


Your dog has died, and with him

you have left behind part of your life.


You whistled for him at night,

you thought to have awakened him

when you dreamt that a thief

entered to steal your heart

you kissed him on the mouth.

soaped him up before bathing him,

Oh! you loved him so

that you did not sleep thinking of him.


Your friend is gone,

he is dead

and the thrushes,

sing for him each morning.


Aztecal IV


She did not die from cold nor rain,

she went away sadly left as she fell.


She was not the rose on the winds,

that of the great horizons,

nor the rose of Jericho

that returns to life on placing it in water.

She did not know about eternities.


It is possible that at some time

she might have had blue eyes when she smiled;

in an instant she made the final voyage

from which one does not return

and learned to weep;

it was something which appeared like a dream.


Aztecal VIII


In this poem of the dead

your father died

your grandfather and your issue died

and the night ends with a glance.


In this poem of the dead

the love of your forebears died,

the birds died

and the star of your forehead silenced itself

like a fistful of sick roses.


In this poem of the dead,

your life died

and for the second time, your homeland died

when you remained to contemplate it

like a colorless rainbow.


In this poem of the dead,

your blood left you by two blue rivers

and a skeleton of shadows

in your eyes of snow

seeks, despite it all, the liberty of your people.


Translation Spanish - English By Margarita Feliciano




FRANCISCO AZUELA: Mexican poet and writer (1948). Awarded with one of the 4 Awards granted by a prestigious jury of the California State Polytechnic University, through its Department of English and Foreign Languages (College of Letters, Arts, and Social Sciences), to integrate the Spring Harvest International 2006 / 2007, one of the most prestigious English language editions in the United States. Solenzara International Poetry Grand Prize, Université de la Sorbonne, Paris, France 2013. Finalist of the LAIA 2014. Annual International Literature Contest, Poemas: Ensueño, organized by the Culture department of the Latin American Intercultural Alliance, New York. Vincitori Assoluti XXXV Premio Mundiale di Poesía Nósside, Italy, 2020.Nominations au prix Nobel de littérature 2021.


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